


hopeless

by roboticdisposition



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Angst, Drabble, Fluff, Ian's POV, M/M, and mickey is mickey, cos it's christmas and i'm stupid, ian is lovesick, just a bit of a winter study, reference to smut, set in s2-3, thank u merry christmas, this is fully self-indulgent i won't lie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-26
Updated: 2019-12-26
Packaged: 2021-02-26 15:21:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21970300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roboticdisposition/pseuds/roboticdisposition
Summary: Ian is fucking hopeless. He’s devastatingly, stupidly, fucking hopeless.He sits in the dugouts, holding his hand out for the smoke resting between Mickey’s knuckles, and he presses his head back on the wall, tilted back so he can look up at the sky. It’s dark, all bitter and cold. Winter’s starting to set in, it’s not like it’s a secret, it’s just something Ian doesn’t want to think about.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 16
Kudos: 126





	hopeless

**Author's Note:**

> hey i wrote this last night and have only slightly managed to read through/edit it, so excuse any errors and shit
> 
> this truly is just self-indulgent winter-ness and that's really all i can say but wishing everyone a merry christmas and shit and i hope u enjoy if u read x

Ian is fucking hopeless. He’s devastatingly, stupidly, fucking hopeless.

He sits in the dugouts, holding his hand out for the smoke resting between Mickey’s knuckles, and he presses his head back on the wall, tilted back so he can look up at the sky. It’s dark, all bitter and cold. Winter’s starting to set in, it’s not like it’s a secret, it’s just something Ian doesn’t want to think about.

He takes the smoke from Mickey’s hands, brushing against his skin, feeling his warmth seep through his fingertips, and distinctly tries to think of anything else. Anything but the cold frost that’s inevitably going to set in over the next week, anything but the way it’ll get too cold to be outside like this, sitting in the dugouts, and anything but the way the freezer will give them frostbite in this weather.

He’s fucking hopeless, tilting his head to look at Mickey, all bitten lips and reddened cheeks, like Winter has come and taken him away already. He stares up at the night, secrets setting under midnight stars. He stares up and thinks about his wishes, on all the stars out of his bedroom window. He thinks about ‘I wish Monica would stay’, and he thinks about ‘I wish Frank would stop drinking’, but most of all he thinks about ‘I wish Mickey would see me, properly’.

All his wishes float through the sky, weaving through the clouds. It’s strange, Ian thinks, breathing out smoke and seeing it fly, seeing it drift. He watches until it mingles with the night, up towards the midnight stars and all his wishes. Ian smiles up and feels himself like he’s drunk, and he supposes he is, really. They stole a couple of six-packs from the store as they left earlier that day; they’ve been here ever since, working their way through them and a pack of ciggies as they take breaks to fuck when they’ve recovered enough to go again.

It feels like a dream, Ian can’t help but think. It feels like any minute he’s going to wake up and this dream - this wish - is going to be snatched away, because it always is, in some form or another. By Mickey’s hesitance with his father, by Ian’s own clinging desperation, by the mess that they cause within each other. And this time, this time it’s the Winter. This time the Winter’s coming and it’ll snatch it away again, and everything will change.

It’ll change because they won’t have this, this time in the dugouts when nothing feels in reach, and everything’s a little distant. Nothing can get them here; Ian knows he’s lying to himself, but that’s just how it feels. And soon it’ll be broken, torn into little shreds and memories and all he’ll get is moments of life and Mickey’s time. He won’t get anymore than that, he won’t get this time in the dugouts, he won’t get that time hidden in the freezer. Mickey will disappear from the pieces in his life Ian’s come to think of like a sanctuary.

And Ian knows he’s being dramatic, because it’s not like he won’t see him at all. He’ll see him at the store in his stupid ‘security’ jacket, and he’ll see him when Mandy gets distracted and he can sneak into Mickey’s room. He’ll still see him, it just won’t be the same. He’s never quite liked change, after all.

“You want another smoke?” Ian asks with a sigh, stubbing the last of the butt they smoked out. He points to the pack tossed by his feet, “I’ll light.”

“Nah,” Mickey grumbles, rubbing at his eyes. He cracks his back and Ian thinks he’s about to get up and leave, but he just settles again, readjusting himself against the wall, his legs tossed out in front of him. “I’m good, I’ll take another beer though - toss me one of them, will you?”

Ian smiles and reaches to the bench behind him, he grabs two and gives Mickey one, cracking the top open of his own. “Mm,” Mickey hums, then, “Thanks.” Ian feels his cheeks deepen and his stomach tighten. It warms him, just a bit, just enough.

“S’alright,” Ian mumbles, playing with the tab of his can in his lap, keeping his eyes away so Mickey doesn’t make fun of his blush. He feels almost giddy, like he’s fourteen again and he’s figuring out he likes boys. Only Mickey feels different than the ones that came before, although he always has, so it’s not like it’s a shock.

It’s just rough when Ian’s sitting there, in the dugouts, and he’s starting to throw back another beer, all fuzzy inside, and he’s thinking of the boy by his side with the big blue eyes and stupid muscled arms after juvie. It’s rough, knowing it’s Winter soon, and it won’t be quite the same as it is now.

He thinks it’s dangerous, because he’s starting to like him - he’s starting to fall for him, even - but he doesn’t dare say that out loud, barely even dares admit it. Ian knows he’d get drop kicked faster than the words could escape his lips. Because it’s just fucking, it’s just sex, it’s just pure pleasure, no intimacy. But Ian doesn’t strictly think that’s true; he sees the intimacy when Mickey’s been fucked and lets himself  _ be  _ just for a couple of seconds before his armour goes back on, he sees it when Ian stumbles into the store late and Mickey’s face softens, just before it hardens.

He sees it, even though Mickey doesn’t want him to, even though Mickey probably doesn’t even realise he’s doing it himself. He sees it and Ian fucking loves it. He loves those moments, where he lets himself dream of a time when it can be like that all the time. When he can sit and watch Mickey’s face soften without being threatened a punch, when he can lie in bed with him without anyone bothering them, when he doesn’t have to be so afraid of something as stupid as a fucking season tearing them apart again.

And he supposes he’s just taking it out on Winter, because it’s there, and because it’s a reason not to blame Mickey himself, for not finding another way around it. He knows its not distinctly his fault, the internalisation, Terry, the rest of the bullshit, but Ian can’t help but blame him a little regardless. Only he tries not to. He really tries not to - that’s why he’s blaming the bitter kick to the air that floats just below the stars. It’s easier, he supposes, lying to himself.

“You not cold?” Ian asks after a minute, daring Mickey to tell him ‘yeah, let’s go then, fuckhead’ or for him to say ‘no, are you? here’s my jacket’. He thinks he’s barking fucking mad either way. But he lets himself hope, lets himself dream, lets himself wish on a fucking star because it’s midnight and it’s cold and he likes to yearn for fucking something.

Mickey turns his head and raises an eyebrow, “I ain’t a pussy, Gallagher.” He snorts, shaking his head. “Why, are you?”

“Little bit,” Ian shrugs, ignoring the way the words punch into his gut, instead feeling Mickey knock into his shoulder with his own, trying to find the warmth buried within the touch.

“That a hint you wanna get on me, or you just makin’ needless fucking chit chat.” Mickey grunts, going to stand up, assuming it’s the first, but Ian puts a hand on his thigh and stops him. Though he immediately takes it off when Mickey turns and stares at him with daggers in his fucking eyes.

“Just chit chat,” Ian says, ignoring the way his own voice softens, his body going limp, his head resting back again against the wall. He’s feeling a little fragile, all small under the night with Winter stomping on their heads, sitting next to Mickey with his heart thudding in his ribs.

Mickey snorts out a laugh, all harsh and disbelieving. Ian thinks he doesn’t mind, he’s never minded. It just makes him a little more lovesick. “Course it’s fuckin’ chit chat, ain’t it? Do you have to be that much of a fag?”

“Yeah,” Ian smiles weakly, shaking his head. “‘Cos, believe it or not, Mick, but I am a fucking fag.”

Mickey grumbles something Ian doesn’t catch, then buries his mouth back on the lip of his beer can. Ian’s too busy watching him to hear him, his cheeks sucking in the liquid and his throat gulping it down. He’s hopeless, that much is evidently fucking clear.

He drains his own beer, losing count on how many he’s had, crushing it with his fist and tossing it at the pile by his feet. Mickey’s own empty can joins his seconds later and Ian sighs, smiling before turning back up at the stars. Like a fucking safety blanket where he can let himself dream, let himself imagine, let himself wish.

“What I meant was, it’s gettin’ cold now, ain’t it?” Ian adds, his voice quieter, softer. It’s not that he’s scared, because he knows what Mickey’s going to say before he even says it, he’ll mock him then threaten to punch him. But it’s still this slice of vulnerability Ian’s not sure he’ll ever get used to. You’re not supposed to be a vulnerable fucking gay boy in the South Side. He supposes he’s breaking all the rules.

Mickey sighs and gives him a look, “Sure, it’s gettin’ cold, the fuck’s that got to do with me?”

“Well-” Ian stops, reaching for a smoke, lighting it up before he continues. “Just… Winter and shit, you know?”

Mickey raises his eyebrow, “Spit it out, Cinderella, ain’t got ‘til fucking midnight.”

Ian smiles, feeling something bobbing heavy in his chest. It feels a little bit like his heart. “It’s already past twelve, Mick-”

“I don’t give a fuck, just finish spouting your shit so you can get on me again before we go, a’ight?”

Ian shakes his head, laughing all huffy as he breathes out the smoke he’s holding in his lungs, passing the smoke off to Mickey as he fumbles with his fingers in his lap.

“What I meant is you ain’t gonna be wantin’ to come and get fucked here when it’s fucking snowing, are you?”

“S’what the store is for?” Mickey smirks.

Ian rubs at his eyes, feeling the distance forming a crater between them already. “Yeah, ‘cos the freezer in Winter sounds real good, huh?”

Mickey does punch him this time, just lightly, against his thigh. “You’re being fucking stupid, Christ. If you’re that fucking worried you won’t get your dick wet then go find some other fairy to fuck, not like I care.”

Ian feels it like a stab, just between his ribs, enough to make him bleed. He still smiles weakly, looking up at the stars despite himself, and wishes to himself that Mickey’s just saying that, he doesn’t mean it, it’s just a lie.

“Fuck you,” Ian says without any heat, laughing it off as best he can. It’s not really funny, but what else can he fucking do? He stares up at the stars and wishes it’ll get better and they’ll get through their fucking messes. Only he sits and he wonders if there’s more chance of pigs fucking flying.

Mickey only laughs in return, too hazy, too drunk, to bother with anything else. Ian takes the smoke back and tries to breathe easy - or easier, because he can never really breathe when Mickey’s around. Yeah, he’s hopeless, fucking terribly, stupidly, hopeless. He can’t help it.

There’s this moment of silence that lingers for a little while. Ian shuffles and drags his jacket further around his shoulders, letting the silence settle as they burn the cigarette down to the butt. It’s peaceful, he supposes, even with the pain in his chest, sitting there with enough of a blur going on to not focus on whether he should say something or what the fuck Mickey’s thinking. It’s this buzz that lets him enjoy the company, the warm arm pressing into his own, legs kicked out by his side. It’s just the right level of hazy, at just the right time in the night, where Ian lets himself just be. Where he lets everything go.

He tries not to think too much, not about Mickey, about Winter, about Fiona wondering whether he’s coming home or not tonight. But he does think about the stars, in the hazy blurred silence that feels like it lasts forever.

But it breaks, eventually, and Mickey’s the one to do it. It’s a surprise, is what it is, but Ian laps it up. He tilts his head when Mickey clears his throat, his neck loose as his head hangs heavy. “Not like it won’t fuckin’ get warm again, Gallagher,” Mickey says, and it’s not in his stupid fucking macho gruff tone, instead it’s all soft, smoked-out and loose. It’s gentle, if Ian can call it that, and it does something to his head, and maybe his heart too.

And maybe Ian’s fucking stupid, for one, or maybe he’s just drunk and smoked too many cigarettes. Or he could just be plain fucking hopeless. But either way, Ian’s head runs wild. He thinks about what Mickey means this time, about what he’s thinking, simply because he can’t fucking help himself. It’s not often he gets that same vulnerability back from Mickey in return of his own.

So he thinks about it, and he thinks about Mickey’s voice, all soft and stupid. And Ian thinks about how fucking gone he is for this stupid boy that tears his heart up and eats it. But he thinks about Mickey, about Summer, about Winter. He knows he’s reading into it, seeing something he wants to out of something of nothing, but he lets himself think that it’s what Mickey meant - lets himself think Mickey’s giving him hope, giving him back something in return of his wish.

He’s telling him Winter won’t last forever, that it won’t stay bitter and frosty, that it’ll be sunny again and they’ll be back to wearing sleeveless tops and drinking chilled beer because it’s the only option. He’s telling him that all this shit won’t snatch him away from Ian forever - and maybe he’s exaggerating that, and maybe it’s because it’s late, he’s drunk, he’s hopeless, but whatever it is, he lets himself believe it.

He lets himself think Mickey won’t always be like this, that  _ they _ won’t always be like this. He lets himself hope Mickey means it, that they’ll get through this Winter, and maybe the next, and then the Winter after this too. And maybe they’ll get through all the shit in between too.

He’s hopeless, he tells himself. He laughs up to the stars as the thought sinks into his skull and makes itself comfy. He’s fucking hopeless, and he wishes on the stars that it won’t always be a bad thing.

“Yeah?” Ian manages to respond eventually. Mickey nods and Ian feels a shit-stupid grin spread across his face. “Better in the Summer, can fuck and not get frostbite.”

Mickey snorts and shakes his head, “Best make the most of fucking now then, you think? Before Winter does fucking come and get all up in your dick.”

Ian smirks, raising an eyebrow as he lets his eyes cast down Mickey’s frame. He nods, “Go on then, belt fucking off-”

“Don’t tell me what to do, Gallagher,” Mickey grunts as he stands up, but unbuckles his belt regardless, leaning his elbows over against the wall. “Get the fuck on with it, then.”

And Ian does, because he’s hopeless, he’s drunk, it’s late, and maybe one day his wish - this wish - will come true.

**Author's Note:**

> thank u for reading i rly do appreciate it, please leave kudos and comments and shit they fuel me like i am glugging petrol
> 
> thank u again, happy 2020 hope it brings more fucking logical show gallavich x


End file.
